


Mine

by Puniyo



Series: Compass [8]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Experimental writing, It gets a little dark, M/M, Olympics 2018, but also sugar, mentions of retirement, past competitions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-23 03:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13778283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puniyo/pseuds/Puniyo
Summary: In which Patrick finally frees himself from the silver chains and Javi convinces himself it is not jealousy.





	Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dear reader! I'm still riding on the Olympic train (my heart is pouring because of ladies) and I'm glad I was able to finish this piece.
> 
> I confess I was never a true fan of Patrick's skating but his news of retirement kind of hit me that there is a generation of skaters that I grew up with (well, the first generation for me was Plushenko and Yagudin's era) about to put away the skates. It's funny how this somehow leaves a void or makes you feel depressed. I feel like that. Maybe that's why this piece sounds a little darker towards the end. 
> 
> Most of the things being said in this piece are actual comments and quotes I found in articles. I'm pretty sure you'll know which ones are mine. By the way... 'mine'... if I had to use a word to describe this piece would be 'being possessive' (that's two actually ^^').
> 
> The usual disclaimer applies. This is a work purely from my imagination and in no ways reflect the actual thoughts of the people mentioned. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

**March 15th, 2013 – World Championships**

The flag rises one more time. The anthem plays once again. The red maple leaf basks in the cheers of the crowd and he looks at the world from the top of the podium.

Three-time world champion. It is a great title – he doesn’t mind being called that.

**November 16th, 2013– Trophée Éric Bompard**

He sits on the Kiss and Cry area, his hands greeting the cameras while his legs still shiver from the last upright spin. His coach puts on her best smile and her fingers tap impatiently the plastic water bottle offered by the event.

_‘295.27 points! That is a new world record!’_

He throws his fits in the air – he knows he did it. No one was going to deter him from climbing the podium at Grand Prix Final.

_‘What a weekend of excellence, back to back, from Patrick Chan!’_

He stands up and waves to his fans, the small Canadian flags fluttering in the distance, and he smiles confidently. They ask him how he feels. What an absurd question – he feels how he has always imagined.

‘I was nervous of course. There were some expectations, but I just stayed focused, first quad, second quad, and having fun!’

And goals. They also ask about goals for the season.

It’s _the_ season. There is only one goal – he wants gold at the Olympics. Was there any other doubt about it?

**December 6th, 2013 – Grand Prix Final**

‘Unbelievable turn of events! Yuzuru Hanyu wins the short, wins the free, and the three-time reigning world champion Patrick Chan, who we all thought was unbeatable, has to settle for a silver medal here.’

It’s not the Olympics, he tells himself. Just like his program, winter is still yet to come, and it is just a detour on the long walk to the land of the five rings. He looks to his left. The young Romeo he remembers from last year is ecstatic with his victory, but he can’t allow himself to rejoice in the same euphoria.

There is raw potential in the Japanese skater – this much he admits. But what figure skating needs is maturity. He trusts his skills – they won’t betray him.

It’s not his anthem they play that night.

He skips Four Continents in January.

**February 13th, 2014 – XXII Winter Olympics in Sochi**

_‘First man to get over 100 points in the short program!’_

He can hear the crowd shouting and screaming from the backstage. There are faces of awe and resigned eyes around him. Some members of the Japanese team hug each other and volunteers dance with jittering feet, while the press awakes suddenly from their brief slumber and prepare their notepads, their microphones, their cameras, their phones, their tongues and their hair.

He looks at the small screen near him. _101.45 points._ The strum of an electric guitar pierces his bones in a Parisienne fashion.

Young Romeo has climbed the balcony to meet his Juliet.

The play is still a tragedy.

**February 14th, 2014 – XXII Winter Olympics in Sochi**

The last note from Vivaldi finishes and he kneels on the ice, his hand grasping the emptiness that had settled there. People clap in synchrony, they do – he bows in respect – but the roars are noise now and he just wants to leave the rink.

_Has the Kiss and Cry moved places?_

Sweat crawls down his temple and neck like leeches thirsting for blood. The towel is harsh on his skin, water refuses to go down his throat, and the muscles in his face don’t obey him anymore.

There is silence. He mentally prays for an auspicious score.

_‘The medal was his to grasp. It was supposed to be his.’_

Five points below Yuzuru.

Young Romeo has climbed the balcony and makes love to sweet Juliet.

The play is still a tragedy. He has both the dagger and the poison, one in each hand. The blade is sharp and the medicine bitter.

_Did he really lose his gold?_

He stands up and waves to his fans, the small Canadian flags fluttering in the distance, but he can’t smile for his prepared speech. They ask him how he feels again. What an absurd question.

‘I was just relieved to know it was over and I didn’t fall on my bum.’

His body might appreciate it but his ego is bruised. Hands down, a trip, never a fall. It’s not fair for young Romeo, he knows. He also knows he wanted gold and he lost it.

‘Figure skating is a tough, tough sport. I just made one too many mistakes.’

It’s not his anthem, again, that they play that night. The colors might be the same but it’s not Canada’s flag which is raised the highest. He looks to his left. The gold medal is truly beautiful. It reflects a warm light and he almost cries.

It’s the second silver he receives in these Olympic Games. It’s a heavy medal. It locks around his neck like a chain that never rusts.

He is chosen to say a few last words in the gala. His script is blank and there is no ink.

‘Thank you for the great memories.’

He joins young Romeo in the group hug. Their shoulders touch. He feels the same electricity pulsing through his arm.

It is rather uncomfortable.

**December 12th, 2015 – Grand Prix Final**

_‘He is in a class of his own.’_

He doesn’t want to admit it, but it is true.

He blamed the young skaters for the gloomy future of the sport – where were the spins, the transitions, the artistry?

He blamed the young skaters for changing the truth he had always known – deep edges, controlled footwork, elegance in speed – into four and half minutes of mechanical turns and deaf rotations.

But he sees young Romeo now and he _understands_.

**February 12th, 2018 – XXIII Winter Olympics in PyeongChang (Team Event)**

He stretches his hand, Gabrielle is shaking despite her composure, they all count to three, and jump.

A leap of faith.

Red and white rise once again. The anthem finally resonates in the cold air of Korean plains.

The gold medal is heavy. It’s rough on his fingertips and it’s another knot on his neck.

_How does one move forward?_

He looks to his left and the American team celebrates as loud as them. There is no Yuzuru Hanyu next to him.

_But you’ve moved forward already._

**February 17th, 2018 – XXIII Winter Olympics in PyeongChang**

A _hallelujah_ escapes his lips as the music finally fades and he open his arms to the audience. He feels the weight of the seconds on his muscles and his head is slightly dizzy from the spins. The blue guards are waiting for him and he sheathes the blade for the last time. It’s funny how the floor is more slippery than the ice and the seats at Kiss and Cry are unexpectedly harder.

The string of numbers that constitute his scores are announced in a language he doesn’t understand. Frankly, he is not worried anymore. He looks at his boots – a little worn out, a scratch there, a cut here. These are great boots. He smiles.

They ask him how he feels. What an absurd question – he feels _great_.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

‘I just really want to be able to enjoy it as an audience member now.’

It came easier than he thought. He shakes the hand of the interviewer one last time and he leaves the room, his country’s name imprinted on his back. The same commotion continues throughout the halls. The world of figure skating never stops and new faces join the family every year. He sees Yuzuru in the conditioned room.

_A family, huh?_

The younger skater looks tired and his eyes are swollen and red. The small white tiger plushie rests near his dark blades. His costume shines brightly, like the gold he has just won and the _Patrick_ that he mutters.

It’s a beautiful costume.

‘Congratulations Yuzuru.’

The Japanese skater smiles and bows like always and he feels compelled to do the same. He can suddenly feel the chains of the silver medal.

_I used to hate you._

‘Your English improved a lot.’

Yuzuru blushes and shakes his head vividly. He can still see traces of young Romeo in the warrior he has become. They both laugh.

‘Don’t let that injury keep you away from the ice. I’ll be watching you now from the stands.’

And he extends his hand for a handshake. He is nervous and his palm is wet with sweat but he hopes the other man doesn’t realize it. A warm hand meets his. He feels the same electric wave running through his arm – the same as in Sochi.

It is rather pleasant and comforting.

He pulls Yuzuru into a hug and the two stay silent for a couple of seconds. He feels a stronger grip on his jacket and all the words he had dissolves in the air between them.

He smiles one last time and leaves the room.

The chains were left behind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Los Juegos Olímpicos de Pieongchang, 2018**

The press finally leaves. Questions finally cease. He finally breathes.

Sonia sends him the e-mail with his ticket back to Madrid and they take a selfie before she goes back to her team. ‘It’s for my family,’ – she says – ‘so they know I was the best friend of Spain’s first Olympic medalist in the ice.’ She gives him a final kiss on his cheek and runs, before she loses her job.

_Maybe she should have joined track and field instead._

He needs to put down his skates and change back to Javier Fernández. His hands are numb from holding the tool of his trade and _Hidalgo_ Don Quixote needs to find another windmill to conquer. Brian is close by, talking on the phone, and his coach waves at him frantically.

‘Javi,’- he excuses himself to the person on the other side of the line – ‘have you seen Yuzuru?’

The Japanese skater had disappeared in the crowd of cameras and wires, bears and flowers. He must have materialized to another dimension to fight some more demons.

‘We need to discuss about the gala,’ – he apologizes again on the phone – ‘you’re both invited.’

‘I’ll go look for him.’

The older man only nods and smiles. The Spaniard continues his journey down the hall when he hears his named being called and he turns to his coach again.

‘Javier,’ – the phone call is finally finished – ‘congratulations on your medal!’

He waves back, acknowledging the felicitation.

_‘Even though it wasn’t a gold medal, it was an Olympic medal, which was our dream.’_

A nightmare that hunted him in Sochi and a seat in fortune’s chair now.

He can almost feel the medal around his neck, the ribbon a chain and the round metal a padlock. He hands tremble at the thought of bringing glory back to _España_ and he almost trips, the white tiger in his hands falling to the floor and bouncing a few steps away.

¡Vete aquí! – He picks up the fluff ball by its tail and hears someone laughing.

He swears he can almost recognize that voice.

The laughter subsides quickly and he is greeted with silence. The door of the conditioned room is open. There is Yuzuru – and his watery eyes resting on the shoulders of Patrick Chan – and the six-letter _CANADA_ irradiating a warmth too comfortable for the Korean winter.

_Didn’t he just announce his retirement?_

The eldest skater leaves the room without looking back, his head high and his back strong and firm like each of his steps.

‘Javi!’

Yuzuru sits on the nearest bench next to his own boots and stretches his legs.

_A tired wildcat with fur of green, purple and gold._

‘Brian is looking for us. Do you still remember there is a gala at the end?’

The Japanese skater shoots him the intense glare only he knows how to do. Javi feels a thrill (he doesn’t know if it’s exciting or frightening) slide down his spine.

‘Javi will skate in gala? How about Spain?’

‘I will be back on time.’ – And he sits next to his partner, both the mascots forgotten on the side.

He notices how Yuzuru’s eyes are still red and his hair disheveled. He still remembers the throbbing silhouette in the green room and the stains of tears on his chest. He can’t divert his gaze and his hand caresses the younger man’s cheek, his fingers drawn to his skin almost like witchcraft.

_What did you talk with Patrick? Did he see you cry?_

‘Javi?’

_It’s not jealousy._

‘It’s nothing.’

_It’s more than that._

His finger caresses his cheek, the warm lips, his neck. He wants more, so much more. The Adam’s apple (he feels the muscles in the throat swallowing hard), his collarbone – it’s sickening how much he wants – the rhinestones, the hectic rhythm of his breathing, the gold lines on his costume.

_This is where his gold medal will be._

‘Javi?’ – Yuzuru asks again.

_That voice seduces him. He wants the medal. He wants Yuzuru._

‘I hope the press conference later won’t take long.’

_He wants gold. He wants Yuzuru in gold. He wants it all._

The younger man takes his hand and rests it on the cold, wooden surface where they are sitting. He stands up, sways his legs, wincing at the sudden excessive pressure on his ankle, and grabs his skates.

_Are you leaving me, Yuzuru?_

‘Brian is waiting for us. Later we have ceremony. They will put Spanish flag.’

_And they will hymn your anthem and chant your name in a collective prayer. And I will sing with them._

‘But later,’ – Yuzuru’s hand is touching his own cheek and the Spaniard is the one to swallow hard this time – ‘later is only for Javi.’

**Author's Note:**

> I challenge... well not challenge, this is the wrong word, but I request (more like I beg) that someone continue this piece. I might write a part two to it but I don't think I'll have the time to do it. Besides, I would love to see someone's take on this.
> 
> Thank you for sticking to the end! *offers chocolate*


End file.
